33 and 3...

A long time ago a little boy was looking out his screened in window...he was too young to realize how high off the ground that window really was. He was just so interested on what was going on outside. He yearned to go outside; to play outside; to be free.

He was looking so hard he didn't realize that the screen he was leaning on was becoming loose. Before he knew it, out the window he plummeted. Down, and down he fell...silence.

Three stories down. One yard away from concrete the boy lay screaming out in pain. One broken arm and one fractured skull. All he wanted now was his mommy. " Mommy, Mommy, where are you?" he thought.

Off of the ground he went before he realized what was happening. Tears filled his eyes, blurring his vision. He had no idea what was happening or who had him. Pain was the only thing he knew at this point and that was the only thing he felt.

Once the calm came he realized he was finally with his mother. The experiences were more then he could bear and something that he would barely remember when he was older.

When I was two, almost three, this was the most dramatic thing that ever happened to me. Or was it? Physically yes, mentally probably not. What I mean by that is, my mother and birth father were divorced when I was three years old.

Although I am 33 years old now, and I have what I call three different dads, it's still something that weighs heavy on my mind every once in a while. I don't blame anyone really, my parents were young and sometimes I don't think they thought everything through. But that's a subject for another time.

I look at my children everyday, and I can't bare the thought of not having them around. I can't help but hurt when one of them gets hurt.

If you are reading this and you have children, I pray that every night if you have the opportunity that you hold them tight, or tell them that you love them.

If I had fallen three feet in the wrong direction, I don't think I would be here writing this blog today...